


Lingering

by distant_rose



Series: Ro Writes Canon...Somewhat [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, Emotional Sex, F/M, Healing, Psychological Trauma, Scars, Soft sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 05:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distant_rose/pseuds/distant_rose
Summary: Killian Jones isn’t what Emma expects. He’s gentle, soft and possibly more damaged than she originally thought, beautiful and broken. But so she.





	Lingering

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for CS March Madness, but shit happened and better late than never, right? Anyway, I was kinda inspired to write soft and emotional smut after chatting up with three certain individuals who know who they are and agree that Killian Jones is a gentle soft boy who prefers softness to roughness. A special thanks for @optomisticgirl and @shireness-says for listening to me bitch and moan while I tried to finish this.

Gentle.

It’s not a word Emma thought she would associate with Captain Hook, but there’s no other way to describe the man in front of her right now. For all of his violence and over the top innuendo, there is nothing but softness and earnestness in the way he looks and touches her. His hand, even with rough callused palms and crooked fingers, is feather-light as it traces the ridges and divots of her spine. The way his lips meet hers isn’t raw and vicious like the kiss they had in the jungles of Neverland, but sweet, slow and deliberate.

And it’s confusing the hell out of her.

This isn’t what she expected.

Emma doesn’t do this. This kind of softness or gentleness or whatever the hell this is wasn’t something that happened to girls like her. She’s not afraid to admit that she’s had a fair decent amount of sex in her life; more than a few nameless men and women have come and gone from her bed, each less meaningful and even less consequential than the next. Yet right now she’s out of her depth as he guides her to lay in the middle of his bed while laying light kisses down the column of her neck, each one as delicate as the wings of a butterfly. It’s lovely and nice, but also foreign and overwhelming, causing emotions she didn’t realize she still had to ricochet off her heart and rattle around in her chest like a rusty game of pinball.

She doesn’t spare much thought as she slips her hand up the back of his shirt. The only thing on her mind is that she needs something to hold on to, something to keep her from drowning inside her own emotional maelstrom.

Yet everything changes as her fingers slide across his skin.

Killian stops moving, but she barely notices at first. She’s more focused on the rough terrain of skin that lays under her fingertips, previously undiscovered. It’s something she hasn’t thought about it until now. They’ve only done this a few times, but each and every time, he’s kept his shirt on and the lights low.

“Love?” Killian pulls himself up on his elbows. Though he’s pulling away from her, she doesn’t allow her hands to leave his back. They follow the motion of his body, sliding down until they sit on the swell of his ass, discovering even more ridges and bumps. There’s a wariness in his eyes that she’s never seen on his face before.

She finds the distinct curve of raised skin on his lower back and traces it lightly with her pointer and middle fingers as she regards as the panicked look on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s -”

“It’s not nothing,” she cuts him off with a frown. Absently, one of her hands drops from his skin to tug at the bottom of his shirt, thumb rubbing circles into the material. “It’s definitely something. Or else, you wouldn’t look ready to jump out of your own skin.”

Killian’s eyes squeeze shut at her words, but he doesn’t say anything. Furthermore, he doesn’t move. The seconds tick by and both of them stay motionless, like wax statues on display, and that’s when Emma gets impatient. She tugs violently on his shirt.

“Take this off.”

“Emma.” The sound of her first name escaping from his lips with such exasperation is a shock to the system. He never calls her Emma.

“What are you afraid to show me?”

“It’s not pretty.”

“I don’t care.”

“Emma, really, you don’t want to see it.”

“I want to know you,” she whispers, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “Remember what you said? That you’re a fan of every part of me? I want to be a fan of every part of you, including the bits that aren’t pretty to look at it. Especially those.”

He opens his eyes, studying her face for a moment before pulling away from her. Emma’s heart sinks in her chest, fearing that she pushed him too far and he’s going to leave her. However, that concern immediately evaporates as he reaches down with quivering fingers to pull his shirt up above his head. She sits up, watching him with rapt concentration.

Ink.

He’s covered in it. Dark and bold it stretches over his shoulders, wraps around his biceps and runs down his sides. Some pieces are beautiful and intricate while others are faded and muddled from centuries of life without touch ups. Without even thinking about it, she reaches out and brushes her hands down his chest, tracing along the dark lines and through the wiry thatch of hair. It isn’t long before she realizes that there are patches of unnaturally raised skin hidden underneath the ink and his tattoos aren’t just random works of art, but rather functional – hiding away his scars from the world.

She finds a particularly jagged scar cutting across the left side of his abdomen, cleverly hidden by the dark body of a vicious looking shark. She runs her fingers along it, studying it with a small frown.

“Where did you get this guy?”

“The shark? Ages ago. Was drunk and thought it would look menacing.”

“I wasn’t talking about the shark,” Emma replies, deliberating tracing the old wound and looking up at him with raised eyebrows. “I’m talking about the scar.”

Killian is silent for a long moment, to the point that Emma is certain that he’s never going to answer her. However, he opens his mouth and lets out a shaky breath before speaking in a low voice just above a whisper.

“When I was boy...There was a captain of a ship who…he...he wasn’t a good man and he threatened my brother with a knife when he thought we were knicking his rum…I got in between them.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

“Shit, Killian,” she whispers. She bends down and gives the scar a brief but reverent kiss. Her fingers skate across his skin again, finding another one. This one not as nicely healed, puckered, prominent and noticeable despite the attempt to cover it up with a large anchor.

“And this one?”

“Pan. He didn’t take kindly to being disappointed.”

She repeats the same process, placing a kiss against the twisted imperfect skin. Her eyes bore into his as her lips make contact. He lets out a shuddering breath as she gently grazes her teeth over the area.

“You’re beautiful,” she says quietly, resting her chin against his hip bone and looking up at him with soft expression.

“Don’t lie, love, it’s not becoming of you.”

“No, I’m serious. I think you’re beautiful, even with these,” she says, grazing her fingertips against the various marks littered across his side. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that chicks dig scars? They’re very sexy.”

He says nothing in response, averting his gaze from hers and staring intently at the wall as if it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. A few months ago, she would have found this behavior uncharacteristic, but since they started seeing each other, she’s slowly begun to unravel just how deep his self-loathing and insecurity goes.

It makes her want to hurt everyone who has ever hurt him.

She gives him another kiss, this time in the middle of his sternum. He gives her a wary look as she guides him down beside her with the same gentleness that he’s shown her before. Planting a knee on the side of his hip, she swings herself over him until she’s sitting on his lap. Her hands spread wide once more over the planes of his chest. His expression doesn’t change and Emma has the impression he’s still waiting for her to change her mind about him and leave.

She rubs her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, continuing her mapping of scar tissue and ink alike. The dichotomy of art and damage in front of her is awe inspiring in more ways than one. She hadn’t lied when she called him beautiful. The story of his life is written out behind her fingertips and that alone is enough to steal her breath away.

“Hey…” she murmurs, leaning forward and kissing his nose.

“Hello,” he replies absently, eyes darting between hers.

She reaches down to the hookless cuff still attached to his truncated arm, fingers dancing along the straps. She brings the arm up, placing his still covered wrist between her breasts and resting it just over her heart.

“Can I take this off?”

His eyes go wide and a small noise of surprise leaves his lips, but she waits patiently and strokes his arm in what she hopes is a calming manner.

“Emma...you really don’t want to see that, love. It didn’t heal well,” he replies, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hand, which had been resting passively on her waist, squeezes just a little on the hard side.

“Hey. Remember what I said? I want to be a fan of every part of you? This includes this.” She brings his arm up so that the cuff of his wrist is parallel with her nose. When he doesn’t resist, she brings it forward so she can place a kiss where the leather tapers off and skin is displayed. “Now, can I take this off?”

He nods slowly. His brows furrow, the flesh knitting worriedly. She offers him a small reassuring smile as she starts fumbling with the straps. It’s a bit more difficult for her to maneuver than she expects and privately she wonders how the hell he does it with one hand, but somehow she manages to pull it off. Almost unconsciously, she starts to massage the reddened skin, irritated and callused by the unforgiving leather straps of his brace.

He’s right. It’s not a pretty sight. The skin surrounding his blunted wrist is mangled and despite it being a centuries old injury, it still looks angry and irritated. The skin is hard and almost scaly to the touch, but still she presses her cheek against it. Killian looks on the verge of tears.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re okay.”

He responds by pulling her closer and pressing his lips against hers with bruising force. It’s not the most elegant kiss. The angle is awkward and their teeth connect harshly, but there’s no denying the amount of emotion behind it. She drops his arm to press her hand to his cheek in order to finesse it into something softer and more manageable. As soon as she lets go, both arms wrap around her like steel bands and pull her as close as physically possible.

“It’s okay,” she repeats as they pull apart. “It’s okay...you’re okay…”

“I need you. I need you so badly.”

“You have me.”

They pull away reluctantly. Emma’s shoes go flying across the room as she practically flings them from her feet. She cares very little about the state of her clothes as she shucks them off without thought. Killian is a bit more in control, toeing his boots off with care. She watches intent as he pulls his jeans and briefs down slowly. It’s as he’s pulling them off that she finally gets a glimpse at the state of his back.

“Jesus Christ."

The scars on the rest of his body are nothing compared to the ones on his back. While his back is covered the same amount of ink as his torso, the cuts are too deep and gnarled to be even be remotely disguised. There’s no way to describe it except for a horror show, and her heart breaks the more she looks at it.

Killian appears frozen in place, his expression panicked. His eyes immediately dart back to his shirt. As soon as he makes a reach for it, Emma presses her hand against his shoulder in order to stop him.

“What happened?”

“I didn’t want you to see those,” he replies, pushing past her to grab at his shirt.

“Killian! Please!” She grabs at the sleeve of his shirt, stopping him from putting it on. “Talk to me.”

“Emma, please.”

“They’re just scars.”

“They are not just scars.” Killian’s eyes flash. The hardness and desperation in his voice gives her a pause. She stares at him, trying to get a read on him. She steps back towards the bed, sitting down next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. He’s even more tense than he was before.

“What happened?” Emma repeats her question.

“I’ve revealed a lot to you tonight, love. Please, let this one go?” There is a pleading tone in his voice.

Emma watches him closely, before taking his hand and bringing it to the small scar on her breast.

“See this?” she asks quietly. He nods in response. “I got this when I was nine years old when my foster father decided to use me as an ashtray.”

Killian doesn’t say anything in response, but she sees his eyes soften with understanding. Emma takes his hand away and brings it to the jagged scars surrounding the elbow of her right arm.

“And this,” she says taking a deep breath. “This I got while breaking a window to get back inside my foster mother’s house when I was thirteen. She locked me out in the cold for not cleaning my room. I nearly had a frost bite on my fingers and toes. I think I would have frozen to death if I hadn’t broken in through the basement.”

His fingers run across the raised flesh before gently wrapping his hand around her forearm and bringing it to his lips, echoing her previous reverence towards his scars. She offers him a shaky smile, waiting for a moment before guiding his hand back to her body. This time, she places it over the gossamer ripples on her belly.

“And here… I once carried a baby when I was only seventeen years old. You see, I loved someone and I went to prison for his crime and I gave birth to his child while chained to a birthing bed.”

Killian’s entire body stiffens at her words. Emma isn’t sure he’s breathing when she turns to look at him and sees the horrified expression on his face. His eyes meet hers and it’s quite clear he’s startled by what she’s said. His fingers twitch, lightly brushing against her stretch marks.

“Did Bae know?”

“No,” she says, taking a shaky breath. “No, he didn’t.”

“Still bad form,” he replies, zeroing in on them. His fingers touch trace them again, this time with more pressure. “But you shouldn’t be ashamed of these, love. These little tiger stripes are badges of bravery and you should be proud of them.”

“I could say the same about those.” Emma runs her hand across his shoulder, fingers skirting the top of his scars. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of them. What’s so different about those?”

“Because they’re reminder of a time I would rather forget, a part of me that if anyone knew, they would think less of me.”

“Why?”

Killian lets out a deep breath, his body trembling. He opens his mouth and wetting his lips before speaking.

“Because no man wants to listen to the word of slave.” His voice breaks as he says the final word.

Emma doesn’t know what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. All the air seems to leave her body as she registers his words. A heavy stone settles in her stomach and she regrets making him reveal this part of himself. It’s clear now exactly what the scars on his back are. Whip marks.

She isn’t good with words. Those are Killian’s area of expertise. He’s an incredibly talented wordsmith, capable of swaying people with a few carefully crafted sentences. Emma is more a woman of action.

Killian’s eyes bulge as she climbs back onto his lap.

“What are you doing, love?”

“What does it look like I’m doing, tiger?” she asks, offering him a smile she doesn’t entirely feel. She grabs his hand and wrist and brings them to her waist and rolls her hips against his. Despite his pensive expression, she can feel his renewed interest stirring to life below her.

“Emma…”

“I’m here… I’m not going anywhere, no matter what.”

He surges upward, back into a sitting position. She lets out a soft noise at the change in angle, something he takes an advantage of to capture her lips in another intense kiss. His wrist grazes her waist while his hand tangles in her hair, tugging gently enough that it’s more pleasant than stinging.

Feeling impatient, she leans back and contorts her body in a near painful twist in order to grab at the box of condoms resting on the nightstand. With her frantic fumbling, she manages to grab a strip while also accidently pushing the rest of the box onto the floor.

“Didn’t know you could bend like that, love,” Killian comments with an amused smile. “Gives a man ideas.”

“One thing at time,” she replies with a roll of his eyes. “That was fucking painful, be grateful.”

“Always.”

She cannot help but wince as she finally sinks down on him, a harsh stuttered breath escaping her lips. She’s not as prepared for the intrusion as she would have liked - no surprise, considering the lack of actual foreplay in the face of emotional bombshells.

“You okay?” he whispers, sensing her discomfort.

“I just need a moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” he responds as he presses gentle kisses along her collarbone and rubbing circles into her back.

She nods, resting her head against his for a moment as she relaxes. She swivels her hips experimentally in a haphazard figure eight. Killian groans in response, hand immediately leaving her back and flying to her hip. One thing she’s learned about Killian is that while he’s sweet, he also likes to direct. He coaxes her to change her rhythm into something slow with the gentlest of pressure. Her breath hitches as he slides deeper.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against her throat. “Absolutely perfect.”

“So are you,” she replies, feeling bold enough to caress the scars on his back.

His response to her actions is almost immediate. Killian makes a whining noise in the back of his throat. He widens his stance, bracing his feet against the floor. The change in position allows him more maneuverability as he starts moving his hips up to meet hers. His naked wrist continues to draw patterns against her back while his hand snakes between them to rub at her clitoris, managing to draw a loud whimper from her lips. The circles he makes get smaller and most precise as they move, causing the string coil in her belly to get tighter and tighter until she feels her orgasm beginning to build.

Breathing harshly, she picks up the pace and adjusts the angle of her hips in order to give him more room to move. It’s then that he starts losing some of his self-control, hips thrusting up frantically and watching her with the most intense stare.

She comes ungracefully, somehow managing to get a mouthful of his hair as her orgasm hits. He falls right behind her, his arms curling tightly around her and fingers pressing harshly into her skin as his entire body shakes. He buries his head in the crook of her neck as her hands absently begin to rub at his back again.

He’s still trembling as she comes down. It takes her longer than she would like to notice that her collarbone is wet. Dumbly, she realizes that he’s crying. Rather than being annoyed, her heart aches.

“Hey…” she murmurs against his hair, rubbing circles in his back. “Hey…”

His body stiffens when he realizes exactly what he’s doing. He tries to pull away from her, but she tightens her hold on him.

“I’m sorry, Swan, this…” He averts his gaze, clearly ashamed of himself.

“Don’t be sorry,” she whispers, still running her hands along his back. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s...I’m sorry.”

She presses a kiss against his hairline, her heart in her throat as she continues to try and soothe him. His body continues to shudder, but not nearly as badly as before and she cannot help but feel guilty. She forced him to reopen wounds that were best left alone.

“You’re okay…” she repeats for what feels like the thousandth time that night, pulling him as close as possible and running her fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry…” he repeats.

“You’re okay...I…” she swallows the words threatening to escape, eyes widening as an internal freak out starts to take hold. The three words still lodged in her throat are dangerous and the last time she spoke them to someone, she ended up getting framed and sent to jail. “I...I’m here, okay?”

Killian takes a few more moments to calm down, but when he does, he finally meets her gaze. When she offers him a tentative smile, he leans forward and places a chaste kiss against her lips. It tastes like gratitude.

His eyes are closed when they break the kiss, his forehead resting across hers as he regains his breath. It’s in this moment that Emma realizes that while it’s not the best sex of her life, it’s certainly the most intimate.

And that revelation has Emma scared shitless.

It’s strange sensation to feel him going soft while inside of her and it makes her more aware of the fact that they need to do some clean up. As she moves to dismount, he grabs her hand and brings it to his lips. He places a gentle kiss against the inside of her wrist.

“Stay.” It’s a plea, not a command.

Her first instinct is to flee. Emma Swan doesn’t do sleepovers. She doesn’t even cuddle. Most of the time, she’s out the door before whatever partner she chose for the night has recovered. But Killian isn’t a one night stand she picked up at bar. He’s someone she’s...grown to care about and someone who is willing to do anything for her.

“Okay.”


End file.
